Time does not work the way you think it does, numbered soldiers marching placidly round the face of your grumpy old clock generals. You assume forward-moving lines, an ordered, organizing force with a rational chain …

My feet ache for sand. Whisper of a violent discontent with concrete. Draw me nearer to soft yielding places. Responsive to the depression of steps. An organic notation of â€œI was here,â€ carved by bare …